


all in my skin

by Likerealpeopledo



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Smut, Tenderness, the usual nonsense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-11-03 21:14:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20683175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Likerealpeopledo/pseuds/Likerealpeopledo
Summary: Really? Masturbating at work was practical?  (A song They Might Be Giants will never write,whispered his unhelpful, come-addled brain.)orPatrick has thoughts and feelings about David while at work that require...action.





	all in my skin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [codswallop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/codswallop/gifts).

> This was a prompt from Codswallop for a smutty drabble with the line:
> 
> "Is that my shirt?"
> 
> It's definitely not a drabble anymore, and I hope it's enough smut.
> 
> Title taken from lyrics of Britney Spears' song "Touch of My Hand"

  
  
David smelled like sex...and the suburbs?

That didn’t seem right, so Patrick leaned forward again, pressing his nose against the column of David’s throat, and inhaled. Yes, that was it: leather and spice and freshly mown grass. And while it momentarily conjured up a truly absurd image of David incongruously mowing a lawn, it also sent every bit of Patrick’s blood rushing toward his groin.

In the months since they’d started dating, Patrick had already discovered a veritable cornucopia of ways that he’d not been correctly exploring his own primal needs, but being aroused by the presence of a new fragrance, of all things, was an absolute revelation. Why hadn’t anyone told him? Someone should have told him.

They staggered backward until David’s back was flush against the wall behind the cash,“Okay, wow,” David said, clearly still oblivious to the power of his fragrant neck, and Patrick held his jaw lightly in place as he explored further.

“Oh my god, what is that? You smell incredible.” Patrick’s voice wobbled. He didn’t allow David time to answer, though, because then he dove straight into his mouth, hard enough to knock teeth together.

“And a fine hello to you.” David pulled back and smiled, because he’d obviously encountered this kind of reaction before, and Patrick did not possess the time nor the desire to delve into that absolute unfairness since he had other, more important, goals on his agenda. (That agenda was mostly: Consume David. There may have been--nope, that was it. One goal.)

Patrick moved to David’s ear then, sucking on the soft lobe and lightly grazing it with his teeth. It was there, too, the deep, woody aroma that was driving him fucking crazy. “Is that--how do you--” Words weren’t helpful or particularly available, so Patrick ducked his head back into David’s neck, lapping a little at the dark, rich notes on David’s pulse point with his tongue. It was the middle of the day. It was fine. No one needed any bath salts. Everyone had enough.

“Honey, people can-" David protested, though his shoulders softened like butter as Patrick explored the stubbled line of David’s jaw with the tip of his tongue while his fingers fumbled at the hem of David’s sweater. This was maddening. “Customers--” David protested weakly.

“I don’t care.” Patrick really didn’t. He _ was _ trying to figure out a way to shimmy up David like a tree, though. 

“Okay, now I know you’re not yourself.” David used his hands to lever Patrick’s shoulders backward and scanned his face, mouth twisted in concern. “Sweetie, your eyes are glassy. Do you have a fever?”

Patrick’s head was filled with white noise, so maybe he did. Heat radiated everywhere; his face, his chest, his cock. “No, definitely not,” and he pressed back up into David’s space. 

“Don’t you want to hear about the order we’re putting in for Margery’s aromatherapy line?” David was clearly screwing with him. Again, unfair.

“What I want,” Patrick growled, inching further forward and scraping again with his teeth at David’s chin, “is you.”

“Wow.” David’s tongue darted out to lick his lips and Patrick had to physically restrain himself from following it with his own. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this and I have to say, I like it. I really, really like it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Yes, definitely yes.” David nodded vigorously. “But,” Patrick sensed dissension, so he stepped slightly backward as David continued, “I don’t think that we want to do this now, because I bumped into Bob when I was on my way back and he said he planned on stopping by to pick up some of Mr. Hockley’s tea for his--” David grimaced, gulping as he spit out, “—gout.”

“Oh God.” Patrick rested his forehead against David’s shoulder with a groan. That image was the splash of cold water he needed to maintain some air of professionalism. Maybe Roland could come by later and talk about his plantar fasciitis and Patrick could just never have sex again.

David, amusement evident in the playful quirk of his brow, rested his hands lightly on Patrick’s shoulders and gave each an identical squeeze. “We’re definitely picking this up again later,” he said, leaning down to kiss Patrick once more before he disappeared with the laptop to go order the essential oils he’d tested and leave Patrick alone to suffer.

***

Two days later, the aromatics order had arrived, and Patrick knew he didn’t stand a chance of getting through the day without stealing away to get himself some relief.

He’d already practiced some of the patented self-denial that had propelled him straight through the majority of his adult life (no pun intended), spending the first hour or so of his day arranging the brand new oils and reed diffusers in a tasteful display per David’s explicit planogram. Well, the planogram and no fewer than six text and picture messages intended to confirm the flawless execution of each comprehensive step to David as he traveled. While it was mindful work that ate up time and nervous energy, it didn’t do much to divert Patrick’s dick from what it really wanted him to do, which was to find a discreet and efficient manner in which to jack himself as quickly and as quietly as humanly possible.

The only problem (other than space, time, professionalism, fiscal responsibility, and good business practice) was that no matter what, David’s body was fairly integral to the process. 

The scents were fine on their own, but on David, against his skin, supplemented by his warmth, they had been delicious. Intoxicating, even. Patrick found himself gripping the counter tightly, trying to will the blood back up into his own head. _ Get a hold of yourself. _

Which was precisely when he spotted David’s black leather duffel in the corner of the stockroom. He didn’t usually dig into David’s things, for fear he’d ruffle a knit or sprain a cashmere or something, but this felt like...an emergency. Maybe even a fashion emergency, if he used the concept very loosely, and David would definitely understand a fashion emergency. Even if it was masturbatory in nature.

Because really, it was his only option if he wanted to calmly go on with his workday. There was a pile of numbers staring at him from the computer screen, but they were only going to remain a jumble until he could get his wayward libido under control. If he snuck into the back and took care of things, then he’d be able to more fully concentrate on the invoices for the rest of the morning. 

Practical, he was being practical. 

_What the hell was in those essential oils? Really? Masturbating at work was practical? (A song They Might Be Giants will never write, _ whispered his unhelpful, come-addled brain. _ )_

It wasn’t as if he should be embarrassed about it. _ Just a grown man touching himself near handspun alpaca sweaters, nothing to see here folks. _All he needed to do was grab something of David’s out of the bag, spritz it ever-so-lightly with the essential oils because he did not need another lecture about proper fabric care or the horrors of stain removal, and he’d be well on his way.

He tried not to judge himself too harshly as he inadvertently muttered _ score _ under his breath when David’s duffel revealed the presence of an unwashed graphic t-shirt, worn just the previous evening, tucked away amongst the otherwise neatly folded clothing and products. It was a double score since it was a tee and not a sweater, so he felt much less guilty possibly having to, you know, defile it.

It would wash, anyway. Unlike cashmere. 

Thank God they’d wedged a couch in the stockroom for “breaks.” Patrick was sure this counted. After locking the front door and hanging the “Be Back Soon!” sign, he unbuckled his belt and pushed his jeans and boxer briefs down his thighs, tugging as if his hands belonged to someone else. He positioned and re-positioned the t-shirt so it draped over his neck, bunching slightly over his chin and mouth, so each inhale came blessed with another trace of David. One of the massage oils the store carried was scented with vetiver as well, so he’d grabbed a bottle off the shelf to serve as lube, and opening the cap was enough to jog his memory and set his hand in motion. Patrick’s cock jumped the second he touched it, and he knew he’d made the correct decision, even if he felt his dignity had taken a brief, though well-deserved, sabbatical.

Masturbation hadn’t been about passion or attraction or even remotely sensual for the majority of Patrick's life. Usually he hadn’t even required much mental stimulation--just a few rough tugs, a few well-placed strokes, and he'd always found the release he needed. After moving to Schitt's Creek, though, he’d spent more time agonizing over the deeper meaning of jerking off than he cared to admit. If he’d been wrong about who he thought he was for so long, how was he supposed to know when he was right?

And then he’d met David, and everything had changed. He knew he was right. He knew it.

Like now, when he touched himself, even lightly, his body was already humming. He let his neck go slack, and his fingers relaxed, and it only took a few quick strokes before he was fully surrounded by the scents that had brought him here in the first place.

The leather was how David had smelled when he wore that black sweater in the dead of summer and danced; it smelled like forgiveness, for both of them. 

He pumped harder, remembering that strangled, needy sound David had made in the back of his throat when they’d tried those new leather cuffs; David’s arms pinned up over his head, throat bared, back bowed, the skin in the hollows of David’s hips bruising under Patrick’s needy hands; fuck, Patrick wanted the feeling to last. 

No, now it was David’s skin, fresh from a shower, or maybe it was the way his duffel smelled like his shampoo and his lotions and how he’d leave the air in Patrick’s bathroom the same way after he’d emerge. It smelled like home--a place he loved, a place he wanted to be, something he and David shared.

Patrick was getting close, he could tell, so he slipped his hand back up to the t-shirt, lightly skimming his own chest the way David might have, pressed it closer to his face, inhaled again. 

It was David’s belt, slung low over his narrow hips. The strength of his thighs around Patrick’s waist, squeezing, hungry, demanding more. It was David’s cock, in his hand, flushed red and straining and leaking, the smell of dewy grass surrounding them as they’d picnicked on their three month anniversary. 

His movements were getting frantic now, sloppier, and Patrick jolted as the mechanical whirr of the store’s ventilation system kicked in. In that moment, surrounded by the rich, heady aroma of David and sweet grass and sunshine, new thoughts swirled around Patrick’s head, and he had to slow his hand so he could chase them.

It was David’s neck - the long line of his throat, the sharp protrusion of his Adam’s apple, the hollow curves that led into his broad shoulders. Everything about David’s neck was gorgeous and masculine and now it belonged to Patrick; it was the space Patrick spent the most time, where he fit, where his lips could always connect, explore, pay homage. 

Cock leaking, he was clearly picturing David’s neck; he could almost sketch its graceful arch, the way it moved when he spoke. Maybe that was what made Patrick feel so fevered and desperate and electric. Jesus, he wanted David to be here. To touch him. To lick him, to bite him, to taste him.

Patrick was squirming and panting, legs shaking. His balls tightened, thumb pressing hard at his frenulum, throat constricting to push down a sound he knew he didn’t need to hide. He was so wet with precome and lube that the noise his hand made against his skin was obscene, and he wished David was there to hear it; he loved that sound. He should slow down, drag this out, but he didn’t want to wait, he was tired of waiting. He’d been waiting for his whole life. Patrick’s toes curled as he threw his head back, muscles convulsing, until he gave a final thrust into his own tight fist and came, emptying onto his twitching hand, up onto his stomach, everywhere. “Ffff—.” 

“Hey,” came a familiar sounding voice. “Oh wow.”

Patrick startled and then froze, unable to formulate a response as he continued to spasm and pant and struggle to develop adequate explanations for having his pants at his knees midday. _ Please don’t be a customer. _

No, it was a fairly unsurprised looking David, even though he’d just returned to find his boyfriend covered in come with his dick in his hand and one of David’s designer t-shirts practically tied over his face like a really pervy bank robber. In their (formerly) reputable place of business. Before noon. On a Tuesday. Maybe Tuesday was what made this most egregious. It was hard to say. 

“Is--Is that my shirt?” Yep. That was definitely David. Protective of his three hundred dollar t-shirts, probably shouldn’t use it to clean up with, David.

Patrick sheepishly peeked out from behind the protective layer of David’s as yet unblemished t-shirt, not even scrambling to put himself away. 

”You just couldn’t wait, could you?” David teased as he approached, dropping to his knees and pulling Patrick’s jeans down fully, fingers tracing the soft skin behind his knee, mouth trained with laser precision to the inside of Patrick’s left thigh. 

“What--” Patrick said, finally finding his voice, as David began to greedily suck the come off of Patrick’s spent cock like he was the one starving for it, moving slowly down to the join of his thigh, and then to Patrick’s fingers where they still trembled in his lap.“You’re not--” He was going to say _ angry _ or _ disgusted _ but then David’s clever tongue swirled over the head of his cock, and Patrick’s shoulders and hips unclenched as he became certain that David was neither of those things. At all. And, honestly, neither was Patrick.

From his crouched position, David smiled again. It was that bright, careful smile that always bloomed brightest in Patrick’s fantasies, but in reality it was earth-shatteringly beautiful, shimmering with light and easy affection and it was _ his. _That smile belonged to Patrick. David reached up to cup Patrick’s chin in his hand.

“Hey, I told you I liked seeing you this way.” David craned his neck up for a kiss, the taste of Patrick still clinging to his tongue. It mingled with the taste of David’s mouth, sweet and real and home. “Now let me help.”

**Author's Note:**

> Many blessings to simplytheschittiest and RhetoricalQuestions for being willing to read this before it was done and giving me suggestions.
> 
> And so many thanks to cinnaluminum for her tireless beta work and being willing to go over my writing with a fine tooth comb.
> 
> Also big ups to the support, validation, and brainstorming from the best bar in all the land, the Rosebudd Motel.


End file.
